


Monsters and Mascara

by MistressOfMalplaquet



Category: Riverdale (TV 2017)
Genre: Alcoholism, Angst with a Happy Ending, Blink and you'll miss it, Cheating!Jughead, Coma, Drug Abuse, Emotional Abuse, F/F, F/M, Implied/Referenced Cheating, Jughead's self-loathing, Married!Bughead, Memory Loss, Past Miscarriage, Therapy, Unhappy marriage, beronica, bughead - Freeform, but..., choni, drug user!Jughead, is he?, jingle jangle, varchie
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-06
Updated: 2018-06-28
Packaged: 2019-05-19 03:09:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 19,324
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14865453
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MistressOfMalplaquet/pseuds/MistressOfMalplaquet
Summary: All the people we are inside our heads: reflections in a three-part mirror...Betty is about to ask Jughead for a divorce, when an accident forces her to look at life and marriage from new and dangerous angles.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> (This fic is complete, so the chapters should go up quickly.)

The first call comes just before eleven. Betty sits alone in the big, silent house with one hand curled around a vodka on the rocks and the closed computer balanced on her thighs. There’s an envelope addressed to Forsythe Jones on the table, and she nearly uses it as a makeshift coaster before she sees the expensive engraving in the return corner: thirty-seven next to an ornate H. A strange mark, one she doesn’t recognize, but she doesn’t recognize much in this new and echoing life.

Even though her heart is breaking, Betty is still determined to be organized. She files the envelope with the rest of Jughead’s mail and puts her frosting glass of vodka on a scrap of paper. It’s marked with a few words smudged by his haste to get out of the house and away from her:

 **Be back late.** **Don’t wait up.**

At this point she both hopes for and dreads Jughead’s return. Betty knows their marriage has avalanched into a full-blown disaster, but her stubborn nature won’t let her give up. If she waits until he comes home and tries to talk to him, would that help? What if she suggests couples therapy along with a list of reasons to support her point?

Maybe then Jughead will tell her why his anger – at her, at their parents, at everything – has become toxic.

_What can I do for you?_

_What do you need from me?_

_Why have we ended in this cold and dreadful void?_

She's going to lose her shit if she sits there much longer. Betty sighs, toasts her image in the window, and opens her laptop. She researches local therapists, reads the reviews, and marks the names of a few who look promising.

Just as she pastes Dr. Yee’s address into her contact list, Facetime pops up with a notification from her husband. A side window opens with a blare of pulsing techno, voices, and loud laughter. Over the hilarity she hears Jughead’s voice and sees a shaky image of him talking to some unknown female with pink hair. The pulsing lights make it look as though there are several Jugheads – one red, one green, one dark as a night shadow.

“Don’t worry about her,” he’s saying. “We don’t even sleep in the same room anymore.” The pink-haired woman opens her mouth to respond, but Jughead pulls her into a long kiss.

Betty gasps, and her stomach flips with horrified shock.

She can guess what has happened. Jughead is drinking, has dropped Jangle in the men’s room, and in the middle of a club pick-up he’s butt-dialed his wife. The image of the kiss on the Facetime screen – when was the last time he kissed Betty with such hunger and passion? – blurs before she slams the laptop shut.

Betty tosses back the rest of her drink, gets up, and pads to the kitchen. The oak floors are cold underfoot, her flowering herbs in the window smell like sage and mint. Blown air from the forced heat stirs the hem of her white silk nightgown, a clinging piece with a high slit on one side. When she put it on earlier, Betty hoped the slinky lingerie would lead to conversation and intimacy. Now it’s obvious that just isn’t going to happen.

_One more glass of vodka._

_Feel your way up the stairs._

_Go to the bedroom._

Avoiding the sight of her pale images in the triple mirror – a trinity of despair - Betty climbs into bed. Knowing sleep will avoid her like a willful child in a supermarket, she picks up the receiver of the old classic phone Jughead insisted they install in their room: “This old fellow’s a noir staple, Betts. We must have one in our new-old house.”

That was before everything went south. He had just sold his first novel, she had nailed a major editing job. They bought Thistlehouse when the matriarch owner died and spent months rebuilding the place.

The dining room is her favorite. Jughead made love to her there one night, thrusting into her on a pile of pillows below a starry sky visible through the glass ceiling. When they collapsed on top of each other, Jughead whispered she was the one for him, he was the luckiest man in the world, that he’d fallen totally and completely in love.

To banish that ghost, Betty picks up her glass and discovers it's already empty. She fumbles for the tiny flask in her side drawer and takes a healthy slug. Then she lies down and stares at the ceiling, feeling as though she’s riding through wind and darkness towards an unknown destination.

#

The second call comes in after midnight.

#

Hours pass like ribbon candy in the Neurotrama unit. There are short bursts of fevered activity layered with long stretches of silence and waiting.

Jughead’s motionless figure in the bed sees nothing. His eyes are closed, chest barely rises with shallow breath. He looks younger under the bandages and blankets, only a moving line on the vitals screen as proof that he’s alive.

Betty waits by his bedside. She texts her mom, F.P., and Veronica to tell them the little she knows from the police report. A set of tire marks on the forgotten highway show that Jughead swerved for something on the road, but there’s no way to tell what it was.

_A dog?_

_Perhaps a herd of deer?_

_The girl from the club?_

Betty tells Sheriff Keller the facts as she knows them when he visits. She gives him the time of Jughead’s Facetime and a description of the club that she saw in the background. It’s a new place in Greendale, a spot for loud music and quick hook-ups.

When the sheriff asks if there might have been drugs involved, she nods. It’s nothing more than the truth, and there’s no use in hiding from it. Blood tests will reveal all their sordid secrets to the world.

Her mother never responds to Betty’s text.

After that, there’s nothing else to do except wait. She watches Jughead’s face, finally free of the scowl he’s worn for the past year. His brow is as smooth as if he lies in the sweetest sleep that’s untroubled by any dreams, either good or bad.

Betty isn’t so lucky. Several times she drops off in the uncomfortable hospital chair only to wake from horrifying visions of shades who circle her and whisper words in an unknown language. At one point she shrieks, starts upright, and looks at Jughead.

He sleeps on, completely unaware.

#

At 8 AM she sneaks downstairs for a cup of lukewarm tea and a stale muffin.

#

After noon comes and goes, Betty finds she’s fallen asleep for a few hours on the corner of Jughead’s pillow. It’s difficult to remember the last time they slept close together.

#

“We can’t classify it as a coma,” Dr. Masters says. “He’s not exhibiting the brain patterns particular to a comatose patient. At the same time, the usual stimulants don’t seem to work. I don’t want to get too invasive, but if he doesn’t wake up in a few days we might need to consider explorative surgery.”

“The CATscan results didn’t tell you anything?” Betty fidgets with the sleeve of Jughead’s hospital gown. The scratchy material anchors her to the fact that he’s still alive, this husband of hers who broke her heart.

“Everything looks completely fine.” The doctor slaps Jughead’s file shut and hands it to a nurse lurking behind the screen. “That’s what makes this case so perplexing – it’s as if nothing happened, but we can’t wake him up. According to these tests, he should be talking to us right now.”

 _He should be turning away in disgust as I break down yet again,_ Betty thinks. _He should be smashing plates when I ask him for a divorce. He should be packing a bag, calling a Lyft, driving out of my life._

Sudden tears prick her eyelids. How strange that she can remain strong while discussing a possible coma, but the thought of Jughead’s departure makes her break down.

As Dr. Masters leaves with the promise to return later, Betty massages her neck with one hand and considers the man in the hospital bed. They’ve known each other since they were kids.

At some point she’ll have to confront the unthinkable: life without Jughead.

#

The next time she snores herself awake, FP is in the room. His black glance pierces her with his usual concentration that zeroes in on his current target and ignores everything else.

Betty blinks, sits up, and scrubs back her hair, longing for a shower and real coffee. “Sorry,” she rasps. “Didn’t get much sleep last night.”

He ignores her apology. “What’s this horseshit about Sleeping Beauty over there? Doc says it isn’t a coma, but that boy hasn’t moved the entire time I’ve been here.”

“He’s my husband, FP. Hardly a boy.”

“Not what I heard. Word on the street says he’s been acting like a spoiled little shit.”

Betty’s eyelids seem to be filled with sand, her mind moving like a salted slug. Images from the past few years float past like discarded photos:

_The news that Jellybean had disappeared on her way home from school._

_Discarded straws in their garbage bucket, bright as poison._

_Growing silence between them like a new ghost at Thornhill._

_Blood on Betty’s thigh and the sheets._

_Jughead’s despair when she tells him she’s lost the baby._

Betty rubs her neck. “Think you could sit with him while I go and shower? I can pick up some real caffeine for us, too.”

“G'wan.” Like a hooded cobra, FP never blinks. “Get the hell out of here.”

#

Veronica comes by later, closely followed by Archie. She fusses over Betty while he watches, his brown gaze warm on Veronica’s beautiful face. He’s obviously determined to stay as close to V as he can.

When Nick starts blowing up Veronica’s phone, Archie stumbles forward to give Betty a quick hug and says he’s got to go.

#

The day burns itself out in a confused jumble of whispered consults with the doctors, hypodermics, the smell of hospital bleach. FP leaves for an hour and returns, skin flushed and gilded with sweat.

“How many?” Betty demands.

“How many what?”

“Beers, FP. How many did you drink?” Betty crosses her arms and raises one eyebrow. “Could you just keep halfway sober while Jug’s in here? Can you do that for me, FP?”

“Yeah.” He has the grace to look ashamed. “I guess I can do that.”

#

Night in a hospital is endless, an eternal fall down a hushed well. Veronica texts several times and says Nick’s being uber-demanding and they have to talk when Betty’s up to it. Archie sends baffling emojis: a smiley, three lightbulbs, a dog’s face. When the nurse comes to take more blood, FP says he’ll be back in the morning and for Betty to take care of herself.

After that, there’s no one in the hospital room except for her and Jughead. Cautiously she touches his wrist, feels the warm skin and solid muscle that shields his slow and steady heartbeat, counting the questions she wants to ask and cannot.

_Why did you pick up another woman?_

_Were you really going to cheat on me?_

_Do you hate me that much?_

“Jug,” she whispers. “It’s me, Betty. I’m here. I don’t know if that’s a good thing or not, but - I _am_ here. I was going to ask you for a divorce, but the truth is … Remember I told you once I didn’t think I could ever stop loving you? If you’d give us another chance, I’d take it. I’d work so hard for us, you have no idea. If you just told me you’d give it a try, just once, I’d do whatever it takes." Her voice breaks, and she hunts in her purse for a tissue. When she emerges from its folds, Betty shrieks.

Jughead Jones is awake, his North Sea stare trained on her face. “Oh,” she says, breathless. “Jughead! I – wow. Oh, my goodness. We’ve been wondering when you would wake up.”

On the tilted plane of hospital pillows, he frowns. “Jughead?” he repeats. “Who is that?”

She feels her jaw drop. “What? What did you just ask me?”

“Jughead. Is that a name or a disease?”

Betty feels the room begin to spin around her. “Do you really not know…”

He interrupts and reaches out to touch her hand. “And I feel like I should remember such a pretty face, but who _are_ you?”


	2. Chapter 2

“I just don’t want you to lose sight of everything Jughead put you through,” Veronica declares. “Remember all the times he stumbled home drunk and strung out on JJ? And that last thing with the female in the club was the final straw, B. No one should have to put up with that. Believe me, I should know. Nick told me this morning he needs more freedom. Can you believe that? Freedom!” She punctuates her words with an indignant snort.

Betty adjusts her grip on the phone, her palms sweating as she tries to frame her answer in a way Veronica can understand. “You’re right. But there are a ton of hurdles we have to get past before I can even begin to sort it all out. Even though he’s home, Jughead’s still recuperating. He still doesn’t remember me or even know who he is. It’s like I’m living with a completely new person.”

“Okay, I need details. Explain.”

“Twice he asked me why he picked such a strange name for himself, meaning Jughead. Then I explained about the Forsythe Pendleton thing, and all he said was Ah.”

Veronica snickers. “I’ve always wondered about that. Why not Chip or Sporty? Why Jughead? It’s like his father stole the cool FP selection, and after that your boy just gave up.”

“Actually, during the worst days of his Jangle addiction he told me to call him Fors. Pronounced Force.”

There’s an audible gasp from the other end. “Force? _No._ Ohmigosh, Jughead became such an asshole he full-on entered Miami Vice villain mode. Force! Are you sure it wasn’t _Mr._ Force? Dr. Force MD? Professor Force?”

“You should see him now,” Betty whispers. “You should see him, V.”

“Well, bring him out of his coffin! How about this weekend? We all get together, I spoil you thoroughly because you deserve it, and my feline curiosity gets satisfied.”

Betty considers. “Let me get back to you on that. He’s still going through therapy, so I just have to ask the doctors what they think before we have visitors. Yes, I know I should think about myself more, but …”

“Do they at least know what happened to him?” Veronica interrupts. “Why he fell asleep after the accident and woke up with no memories?”

“No, they still have no idea. All they keep telling me is that Jangle is still being researched and our case is a medical mystery. But hey, we need to talk about Nick. Isn’t it time _you_ told him to hit the road once and for all? I mean, I’m just mirroring your own advice.”

“Oh, Nick.” V’s voice becomes breezy with deflection. “He just gave me another diamond bracelet… and Daddy would be simply devastated if I broke up with the St. Clair crown prince …but don’t even try and change the subject! We’re talking about you, B.”

“Tabled for now,” Betty grumps, “but don’t think I’m going to forget it. Parental interference in your love life echoes the worst medieval traditions.”

Of course Veronica has to have the final word. “Maybe we should just call Jughead _The_ Force, like a WWF Wrestler.”

#

He’s visible through the half-open door. Propped on pillows in the window seat, Jughead is reading Beloved with his old hat pulled sideways on his head. The crown beanie seems to calm him as his body experiences withdrawal symptoms. Maybe it’s warm or a connection to his forgotten memories. Betty hasn’t seen it in years, but now he wears it whenever they’re at home.

Betty enters the bedroom with a tray and notices how deep the shadows are under his eyes. “Is that coffee?” Jughead asks.

“Herbal tea, sorry.” Betty puts the cup carefully beside his thigh and drags a cushion forward to sit on. “They say your system is still clearing itself out, so no caffeine.”

“Bah.” Jughead attempts a smile. “I feel great except for those episodes.”

 _Episodes._ That’s what they call them, those moments when he goes into a bout of deep sadness. His bouts of depression are triggered by dreams, the color pink, FP's visit. Dr. Masters says they’re part of Jangle withdrawal and there’s nothing that can help other than lots of therapy, which so far Jughead has flatly refused.

“This tea sucks,” he adds. “Garbage water would be better.”

“Maybe it _is_ garbage water.” Betty taps the velvet window seat beside his hip, not quite daring to touch him. “For all you know I soaked soup cans and fish bones in the teapot.”

“Tastes like it.” His cup goes into the saucer with a chink. Betty watches the intricate dimples at the corners of his mouth, and she knows he has more to say. Before she can ask, he blurts, “I found your diary this morning and looked inside before I realized it was private. Put it back under your pillow. But Jesus, why didn’t you tell me what you were going through with that guy – who just happens to be _me?_ Why didn't you scream at me or slap my face after all the torture I put you through?”

She blinks. “What, complain to my husband who’s recuperating from unknown trauma about a past he can’t remember?”

“Complain?” Jughead swings his feet onto the floor and clasps both hands loosely between his knees. The position brings him close enough for her to see every worried line of his face. “I’m pretty sure when you’ve been emotionally abused you don’t ‘complain.’ You tell the truth about the monster who did it and get help.” His face tightens. “Monster. _I’m_ the fucking monster.”

She can’t wave this away or minimize what has happened. Carefully Betty retrieves his tea and puts it on the ground beside her, buying some time to think. “Look,” she says slowly. “There’s no map for what we’re going through right now. You and I have to navigate this as well as we can and just try to make some sense of it for ourselves.”

“Navigate,” he repeats. “Like explorers?”

It makes her smile. “Yeah, why not? Like explorers.”

“Well, okay. As long as we explore together, because I don’t think I can do this without you.”

When was the last time she heard her husband use those words? Betty blinks rapidly, afraid scalding tears will slip down her cheeks. “Okay,” she says. “Scott and Oates it is – except I get to be Oates.”

It makes him laugh, a rusty and unused sound. “Hey, I wanted to be Oates,” Jughead protests. But his eyes are twinkling, and Betty wants to hold this moment forever with bad tea and classic novels and the silly jokes of two people who might actually like each other, after all.

#

After the Diary Incident, Jughead agrees to therapy. When Betty asks what kind, he says he wants physical, emotional, mental – “ _All_ the therapy, Betts. I never want to be that guy again, the one who hurt you.”

She spends the next few weeks in waiting rooms on gum-stained seats with old copies of Golf Digest and her laptop for company. Veronica checks in via Facetime and, one dreary Wednesday spiked with spiteful sleet, in person with coffee and croissants. Betty looks up and gasps when she sees her friend appear in matching coat and thigh boots, black with turquoise inserts.

“Hey there!” Betty tosses the magazine aside and goes to embrace Veronica, raindrops and all. “You’re such an angel, I can’t thank you enough. Let’s see, all I can offer in exchange are old copies of interviews with Tiger Woods.”

“Much as I admire the Tiger, I’ll pass.” Veronica perches on the edge on a chair. “Have you called a divorce lawyer yet?”

“I can’t. Jug’s going through so much, and I need to support him until he gets better.”

“Here, have a pastry. You’re looking too thin, B.” As if proving her point, Veronica decapitates her croissant with one vicious bite, her lipstick somehow managing to stay flawless. “And did you just say he’s going through so much? Please. I remember every single night he left you alone and in tears. Have you forgotten just because he’s being kind of normal for once?”

“No.” Betty blows out a shower of crumbs and dabs at her corduroys with a paper napkin. “No, I haven’t forgotten. It was a nightmare, maybe the darkest point of my life since Jellybean disappeared and we lost the pregnancy.”

“Oh, sweetie.” Hitching her butt onto the metal struts of the chair, Veronica leans over and gives Betty a long hug that smells of expensive perfume and silk, muffling her voice. “I know your go-to is taking care of everyone, but you can’t forget yourself this time. You just can’t.”

Disentangling herself, Betty dabs at her eyelids before taking a long, restorative sip of strong coffee. “You said you would come and meet him. Maybe if you see Jughead in person it would give you some perspective. How about this Saturday? And you can bring Nick.” Trying not to sound too hopeful, she adds, “If you’re still with him.”

Veronica sits down and adjusts her hem. “Of course I’m still with Nick. And, now that you mention it, there _is_ a chic new pub I’ve been dying to try.”

“No pubs,” Betty insists. “Jughead’s completely sober now, and I’m – well, I’m trying. Let’s make it a diner instead.”

#

By the time Jughead emerges from the office, Veronica has left. “Shopping,” Betty explains. “Shoes.”

“From what you’ve told me about her, she’s already swimming in shoes.” Jughead holds Betty’s coat for her and adds, “Want to go to dinner? Dr. Yee said I need to break out and do something different..”

“Oh.” Betty turns and finds he’s kept both hands on her shoulders. “So – like homework? A dinner assignment kind of thing?”

His eyes search hers. “For me it’s actually our first date.”

“First date.” Betty ties the belt of her coat, trying to smother her nerves. “Huh, I suppose it is. Is that… is that significant?”

There it is, the mischievous smile she thought she’d lost forever. “Of course it’s significant.”

“Oh,” she says again. “Nervous?”

“I am a little nervous, thanks for pointing that out.” Jughead extends one arm, and she links hers through his elbow.

As they leave, arguing over what kind of food they should go for – Italian? Chinese? Thai? Indian? – Betty reflects how easy it is to be with this new Jughead after a year of holding her breath and guarding each word. In contrast to live with ‘Force,’ the two of them now chat like old friends, the way they used to when they were gap-toothed kids on the banks of Sweetwater River.

Arm-in-arm they walk to the elevator, Jughead adding a little quickstep as if he’s the Scarecrow walking with Dorothy on the Yellow Brick Road. Therapy has drastically improved his disposition, although sometimes Betty wonders if they’re now stuck in friendship mode.

When he winks and helps her into the elevator, her stomach does a slow roll of desire. It’s a feeling she hasn’t experienced in months.

#

They end up eating pasta in the back booth at a tiny café. She gets bowties primavera, Jughead orders stuffed shells, and they argue over who has the best dish. “Try this,” he says, holding out a loaded fork, “and _dare_ to tell me that isn’t the most cheesiest, most wonderfullest food to ever food.”

“But taste this first,” Betty argues, thrusting a spoon of bowties at him in retaliation. The pasta is misted with a buttery sauce and sautéed vegetables, and he bites into them with mock-seriousness.

“I don’t know,” Jughead sighs. “My shells are the best thing I can remember eating.”

“You don’t remember much,” Betty blurts before she can stop herself. Clapping both hands over her mouth, she wishes she could take back the stupid joke.

There’s a moment of silence as she waits for the shoe to drop. Jughead sits, fork frozen in mid-air and eyes wide. Then he erupts with a surprised crack of laughter, nearly choking on his food. “Wow,” he says through a bout of coughing. “You don’t pull your punches.”

“It’s not always a good thing.”

“But it is, though.” Jughead chugs his iced tea, wipes his mouth, and leans forward. “Everyone I talk to is as careful as though I’m a minefield. Even my Dad acts like I’m either a decrepit great-aunt or made of porcelain. I love that you can say whatever you feel.” She nods, and he leans closer. “But it wasn’t always that way. Right?”

“Well, it was when we were dating and through the first years of our marriage.” Betty plays with a peapod, decides she’s full, and pushes away her plate. “But when tragedy hit, things changed between us.”

He reaches out and covers her hand with his, rubbing her palm with one thumb. The touch is electric, and Betty suppresses a tiny gasp. Suddenly she wants him more than anything, but she has no idea if he feels the same way.

“Tell me,” Jughead insists. “Tell me everything that happened so I know exactly what you went through.”

#

It’s very late when they take a Lyft home. Jughead sits next to her in the back seat still holding her hand. Betty watches the raindrops on his window and, when he looks down, at his handsome profile. Her thighs shake with the desire to reach out and feel those flat planes of muscle: his chest, those strong arms, his smooth neck.

She’s told him all she can remember, a river of words that has left her empty of everything except this new wanting.

_And how about him?_

_Is he filled up?_

_Is there no room left?_

As if in answer, Jughead’s fingers twist in hers. She’s about to let go, but he lifts her arm to his mouth and kisses her wrist in a long and silent promise. At that, Betty loses her control. She turns and sees his eyes glinting in the streetlights outside, almost feral in the dark, and her lips part.

 Jughead blows on her skin, a subtle embrace that teases her flesh and starts a butterfly fluttering between her legs. She slides her fingers into his hair, careful of the beanie. “Probably time to get rid of this thing once and for all,” he murmurs.

“Not just yet,” she laughs. “I like it.”

The Lyft car pulls up outside their house, and Jughead mouths two words at her: “Thank fuck.”

_Jesus. This is happening._

As if in a dream, she gabbles words to the driver and tumbles out of the car. Jughead emerges and plasters himself to her side. “Thought we’d never get here,” he growls in her ear. “Shit, and I think the driver’s waiting for us to go inside.”

“Were you planning on defiling me by the hydrangea bushes?” she teases.

He stops and gives her a long, exploratory look: up and down, head to toes. “I just might. Some day. But now…”

“Key,” Betty pants. “Door. Let me, mmm, let me think.”

His chest is warm against her back as she fumbles with the lock. “No pressure at all,” he purrs into her ear. “Take your time, concentrate, don’t worry about this man behind you who wants to hoist your body over one shoulder and carry you up to our bed.”

She giggles. As the door opens, Jughead instantly scoops her up into a bridal-carry, hoists her over the threshold, and kicks the door closed with one boot. “Fuck, I thought we’d never get inside… come here, babydoll. Come here.”

Betty holds him back for one second to look up at his flushed and handsome face, dark in the striped light coming in from the porch lanterns. She’s missed him so much, missed this – the feeling of them coming together. They used to spend hours just kissing and making out before everything got so complicated, and God it feels amazing to be back in his arms.

Every inch of her skin shivers and tingles. Betty can’t get enough.

“Bedroom?” he pants against her lips.

“Why bother,” Betty gasps. “We already christened every room in the house…”

“You mean you christened them with him.”

“Yes, _him_ , who happens to be you. Jug, we just took that short and easy turn down Bitter Pronoun Boulevard.”

His blinding smile still makes her heart flutter. “Well, perhaps we could…” Jughead’s voice tails off, and carefully he places his palms on her waist. Betty goes up on tiptoe, and he goes in for an embrace that’s hot as it’s gentle. He’s watching her as they kiss, eyes still open, a strange intimacy that’s nearly unbearable. “You’ve been with me every step of the way through this,” he murmurs. “And you know what? For me, this is our first time. My heart’s a virgin, Betts.”

Her lips form a silent Oh, since she can’t trust her voice. At this moment she’d give him anything, and when he whispers that he wants her to take his virginity, Betty doesn’t know if he means his heart or his body. She’s greedy, wanting it all.

As if in a dream, they tumble over a rug or footstool and end up halfway on the couch. Jughead hums in the back of his throat, and pulls her closer with a sudden tug. One arm is around her waist, the other hooked under her thigh. His tongue licks into her mouth, and he’s hard, pressing, insistent against her soaking panties.

Months later Betty will think of this moment, what she would have done to him if it had lasted. Perhaps they never would have gotten around to undressing and just screwed right through their clothes. Maybe she would have gone her knees and had him in her throat or ridden his face straight to ecstasy.

Their unbearable intimacy is shattered with a loud knock. Jughead gasps, lets go of her, and sits up. His hair sticks straight up, collar is askew, and if he had glasses they’d sit sideways on his nose.

Hurriedly Betty tugs down the hem of her sweater. The house door is open, and a tiny figure stands on the front step, backlit by porch lanterns. Her peaked cap makes it obvious that the arrival is a police officer.

“Jughead?” the woman calls. “Mr. Jones, are you there? I wouldn’t disturb you, but the door was open so I thought I’d give it a chance.”

He climbs off Betty, absently patting her hip, and attempts to tuck his rumpled shirt. “I’m Mr. Jones,” he says. “Can we help you, Officer?”

“Hi,” Betty adds, swallowing her deep disappointment at the interruption. “Is everything okay, or is this just a fundraising drive?”

“Jughead,” the woman repeats. “I wanted to tell you my real name. It’s Detective Topaz, but you knew me as Toni. Remember?”

Shaking his head, Jughead shoves both fists into his pockets. “Toni. Doesn’t ring a bell.” Detective Topaz moves, and with a start Betty recognizes the woman as the light shifts on her pink hair.

It’s her, the one Jughead kissed in the club the night he Facetimed Betty by accident.


	3. Chapter 3

“I spent the past six months going after Riverdale’s Jangle highway when I finally talked Keller into giving me the case.” The detective’s fingers are wrapped around the coffee mug Betty has handed her. “We were really close to finding the source in Greendale, but our last lead just fizzled. I’ve got nothing left except for you.”

“You were working undercover in the club the night Jughead got hurt?” Betty asks. Her mind darts like a school of minnows, trying to reconcile this tiny woman with the night her heart broke and Jughead lost his memory.

Officer Topaz picks up the mug, takes a sip of coffee, and carefully places it on the table. “Jughead was a final link in our search, and I had to get information using any available methods.”

“I get that, but you nearly ruined our lives in the process.” Anger is hot, then cold in her chest.

Jughead slips one arm around Betty. “As I already told you, my memories are wiped. Gone. I’d love to help you in your case, but I didn’t even remember my wife when I woke from the coma, let alone the details of a French Connection.”

The detective’s chair scrapes against the floor, and the policewoman stands abruptly. “Pardon me, but it’s not just a case. There are missing kids who’ve been kidnapped as mules. We talked about this, Jughead, that night in the club - in fact, I told you about my friend's brother who disappeared last fall. You told me we had a connection, and that's why we hooked up.”

He gasps, his fingers tight on Betty's shoulder. “Missing?” 

“Just like your sister. And that’s not even considering the users. Each night my partner and I admin Narcon or Naxilone to Jangle overdose cases. An hour later we’re called back to the same addicts we just visited. The county’s spending millions to keep them alive, and we’re losing the battle.” Topaz stops in front of Betty and folds her arms. “Sorry I interfered with your perfect life, but I had to do someth…”

“That’s enough.” Abruptly Jughead stands up. “Believe me, I'm the first person to sympathize with your friend, but you’re not coming here to talk to my wife like that. Besides, I really can’t help you. Even if I did know where this river of drugs was coming from or who was behind it, I don’t remember my past. Hell, I didn’t know my name until Betty told me what it was.”

“About that. I just discovered we can recapture your memories, which is why I rushed over here tonight.” Topaz perches against the counter. “There’s an experimental clinic in Greendale that works with Jangle amnesia. It’s under the radar and run by endowments from a wealthy owner.”

“Clinic?” Betty asks. “What do you mean? And even if we could get in the door, which we probably can’t, I’m not allowing my husband to become a human experiment.”

“Ah.” Topaz smiles, a wide grin of triumph. “My friend who lost her brother is the one who funds the clinic. And I’ve personally seen cases just like this one fully recover their memories.”

#

By the time Betty has brushed her teeth and climbed into pajamas, Jughead is gone. She frowns and pads out of the room in bare feet, pausing in front of the one closed door on the second floor. It’s Jughead’s office, a room he used for writing back in the days when his inspiration flowed like Sweetwater River. After their darkest days and his Jangle habit, it became his bedroom, a place to crash when he snuck in at 4 in the morning.

Her fist hovers in mid-air before she withdraws and goes downstairs to open a new bottle of vodka.

#

The next few days are an icy return to Betty’s winter of discontented husband. Jughead gets up, eats, and disappears for hours on a bus to some unknown destination. When he returns, he grabs a shower and locks himself in the office.

At her wit’s end, Betty decides to go and confront him. She yanks her ponytail tighter, pounds up the stairs, and stalks upstairs. _I’m going to pound on the door until he lets me in,_ she decides. _It’s time._

She’s about to yell his name when a sound stops her. It’s something she hasn’t heard in over a year: the tap-tap-tap of metal keys on an old Underwood typewriter.

#

Veronica and Archie sit on the same side of a back booth, his arm edging the back of V's seat in a sneaky embrace. When Betty waves and approaches, Veronica’s face flits through several expressions: welcoming delight, confusion, thundery anger.

“Where’s Jughead?” she snaps as Betty slides into the seat across from them.

“Got held up.” Betty tries to hide behind the large menu. “Things are a bit complicated right now.”

“A bit complicated!” Veronica smacks the table with one starfish palm and makes the water glasses rattle. “They’ve been a ‘bit complicated’ for quite some time now, wouldn’t you say? I’ve had enough, B. And I’ve told you so time and again. You need to get your ass out of that house, move in with me, and we’ll hire you the best lawyer on the East Coast.”

Veronica’s vicious affection makes Betty’s view of the day’s specials turn watery and slide sideways. “I know,” she begins, but Archie gives her a hunted side-eye.

“Things really _have_ been complicated, Ronnie,” he says. “I mean, I’m as pissed-off as you are, but the guy went through an accident and amnesia.”

“Accident, amnesia – and adultery. Let’s not forget the third scarlet A.” Veronica adjusts her skirt with a flounce and adds, “Oh, and I picked a dry restaurant because of that loser, and now I can’t order the martini I so dearly need at this moment.”

Impulsively Betty hugs her best friend. “Where would I be without you? But Archie’s right, and there are even more complications since that happened. And more importantly – last night Jughead started writing again.” Veronica’s response is a contemptuous Bah.

“Uh, speaking of that, where’s your boyfriend?”

“Really? _That’s_ your attack-defense? I’ll have you know Nick had some very important clients this afternoon.” Veronica fiddles with the catch of her diamond bracelet, a glittery snake wrapped around her wrist. It nearly falls onto the floor, but Archie catches the jewel in mid-air and hands it back to her.

“Is that why you brought Archie instead?” Betty’s determined to demand just as many answers as her best friend.

“Hey,” Archie says softly. “I was happy to come out with you two.”

About to retort with _Oh I bet you were,_ Betty jumps when Jughead slumps into the booth beside her with a hunted look. “Sorry,” he mumbles. “Know I was supposed to get here earlier, but I really had to clean up and change my shirt.”

“Sorry?” Veronica screeches. “You’re sorry about a shirt? You’ve neglected my girl, _insulted_ my girl, and although you didn’t leave any bruises, you’ve…”

“I’ve abused her,” he finishes. “I get it, and no one hates that more than me. Betty went through the wringer with the Other Guy, and I can’t even make up for it because of the shittiest luck anyone could ever have other than a character played by Sean Bean.”

Betty interrupts Veronica as she goes off about Luck and Shirts and She’ll give him shitty. “Guys, listen. We found out something this week. A police detective came by, and it turns out Jughead – the person he was before the crash – was involved with some really nasty people.”

“The Other Guy,” Jughead repeats.

“Why not call him Fors?” Veronica snorts. “Or The Forcemeister?”

“Wait.” Jughead folds his menu in half so he can see her. “Force? What does that means?”

Archie sighs in heavy sympathy. “Dude, you wanted everyone to call you Force, short for Forsythe.”

“For fuck’s sake.” Jughead swipes his face with one hand and looks up at the ceiling. “I didn’t think I could hate The Other Guy any more than I already do. Obviously, I was wrong.”

“I think Force is kind of cool.”

“Oh, Archie, shut up. You do not.”

“Hey!” Betty stands up and waves off her friends’ unhelpful observations. Three faces tilt up to look at her, and slowly she sits down again. “Officer Topaz said there’s treatment for Jangle-related amnesia. It only involves a series of injections and an overnight stay. Yes, I’ve stayed in touch with her, Jug, and don’t interrupt. If we go through with it, he can help the cops to nail the local drug superhighway, so…”

“But it means I’m gone,” Jughead adds. “The current me, I mean. Betty will be back with that complete and utter idiot. Him. ‘The Force’.” He air-quotes the final word with complete disdain.

“Who technically is you in the legal sense, just to be clear.” Veronica waves off the approaching waitress. “Still, I get your point. Well, just tell Officer Topaz that it’s not going to happen. Blam, end of story, and you can spend the rest of your life apologizing to my best friend.”

“There’s nothing I’d like better…”

“But there are kids involved,” Betty interrupts. “Missing teens, maybe abducted or about to go into the human trafficking pipeline. And the brother of the woman running the clinic is also missing, and, just to really up the stakes, maybe we could get a lead on Jellybean's whereabouts. The police needs Jug’s – well, Force’s help to get them all back.”

Jughead throws down his menu. “Which means I – this version of me – has to disappear and be replaced by the one person I hate. And it gets worse – he abused Betty, and I have to leave her so _he_ can have her again.” He reaches for Betty’s hand and caresses her fingers, gazing into her face. “That’s why I’ve stayed away the past few days. Each time I look at you, my heart breaks again because I’m going to have to say goodbye.”

“Wow.” Archie collapses against the cushions of the booth with a loud Whoosh. “That’s some fucked-up shit.”

“Oh, B.” Veronica digs through her ruinously expensive purse and produces a lipstick-stained tissue. “I’m so sorry for being a bitch earlier. I’ll do whatever I can to help…”

“No one can help,” Jughead declares in his flat, sardonic voice. “No one at all.”

#

Amber-colored liquid in the sink, empty bottles in the recycling. Betty moves on auto-pilot, determined to rid Thistlehouse of every drop of alcohol, each grain of Jangle. Jughead was the user, but it’s also true that she’s been drinking far more than she should.

When Betty turns around from the sink, Jughead’s leaning against the wall watching her with a sheaf of white paper tucked into his arm. The sight causes her to emit a squeak of surprise. “Jug! I didn’t – can I – is there something I can do for you?”

“Yeah.” The papers cascade to the floor with a soft hush, and he strides forward to capture her against the counter. “You can stop talking as if I’m going to explode if you say a wrong word or make a misstep. I know why you’re doing it – because of him, right? He made you think you always had to be perfect, had to stay calm, never show your fear or anger or sadness.”

For the second time that day, Betty feels tears running down her face. “It’s been hard,” she admits, and the words are ground glass in her throat.

“I know.” Softly Jughead caresses her cheek with one finger, her chin, her jaw, her neck. “I know it has. Listen, if we do this thing, I need you to think about yourself. You have to promise me you’re going to go for your own therapy. Abuse survivors need help to find their way back, one thing I learned over the past few weeks, anyway. And I want you to stay strong, to get the help you need dealing with that asshole with my face. I’m telling Veronica to call that lawyer in case you have to leave him after I’m gone, but I _know_ you – I know you’re going to think you own all the fault, all the blame. Promise me you’ll think of yourself for once? Can you promise me that much?”

Betty goes on tiptoe, burrows her face in his collar, and sobs. “Don’t go,” she begs. “Don’t leave me. I just fell in love with you again, and I can’t do this again. I can’t.”

His arms tighten around her. “I’d do anything if I could stay,” he whispers. “I’d cut off my right arm. You just don’t know.”

When she finally backs away, Betty looks down and gasps. “Your shirt! I’ve ruined it with mascara.”

His mouth tightens in an angry line. “Here’s how much I care about that.” Jughead yanks the shirt open so violently the buttons pop off and skitter across the floor. Pulling it off, he throws it onto the floor.

Betty goes to pick it up, but the typed words on Jughead’s papers catch her eye. She makes a soft noise in her throat and collapses on her knees, gathers up the pages, and flips through them.

He’s written about her, Betty, in language that glows like a hearthside in an ice storm.

“I wanted to show you what I came up with yesterday.” He bends over and, with a quick flex of muscle, slides both arms under and picks her up against his bare chest as if she were a kitten. “Wanted you to see yourself the way I see you.”

#

Jughead flings her pristine sheets and blankets off their bed and deposits Betty in the center of the mattress. Before she can speak, he lands half on top of her. “I might be about to lose you,” he snarls, “but by God you’ll never forget this night.”

“I’ll always remember you.” Betty cups his face and opens for his tongue, for his legs slotted between hers. Dimly she feels her stockings rip, one firm yank ruining the flimsy silk. Her sweater is gone, her skirt is twisted up, her panties are pushed aside. Jughead devours his way down from breast, belly, and hip to her center, growling as he pulls her into midair.

Then he’s working into her, tongue against electric clit as though he’s mouthing the most delicate of pearls. The roughness of his hands combined with the gentleness of his mouth is ecstatic, and with a sharp cry Betty feels herself heading over an exciting and dangerous waterfall.

She can’t wait. “Now, now,” Betty begs, pulling him up as she undoes his belt with shaking hands. He’s hard against her, slipping inside as if it’s the only place he wants to be.

“I’m not going to last,” he gasps in her ear.

“I’m not either. Just kiss me.”

Tongue and dick, both secret keys to her body. Betty winds her legs around this man who loves her, this man she cannot keep, and tries not to sob as he convulses and spills into her.

#

Much later Jughead wakes her with a tiny thrust. Betty realizes he’s inside again, that in her sleep he’s breached her body. They lie face to face with his arm under her neck, her leg thrown over his hip.

“I wish we could just leave and ride away,” he says. “Get out my old bike, hit the road, and never come back. If it weren't for JB, I'd take you away right now.”

Such a beautiful dream, so bright and impossible.

“Do you really think of me like that?” she whispers. “The way you wrote about me in your story?”

“Those words,” Jughead says between gritted teeth, “are only a shadowy reflection of how much I love you, Betty. If you could look inside my heart and see what I’m feeling right now, it would burn you alive.”

She blinks, determined not to ruin their final moments with more tears. “Well then I guess it’s going to be okay. At least you’ll always be inside those pages for me to have and hold forever. At least I’ll always have that.”

#

The next morning, Betty calls Officer Topaz and says they are ready.


	4. Chapter 4

Betty can’t stay overnight at the clinic. She has to say goodbye forever to Jughead with a tight hug under the harsh lights of a doctor’s office. She makes her mind go blank and heads to the door, but a firm hand grasps her elbow. Spinning her around, Jughead pulls her in for a deep soul kiss right in front of the owner and Officer Topaz.

“Damn,” Betty hears the policewoman say.

“We’re late,” the clinic’s owner declares, tossing long scarlet curls over one shoulder. “Say goodbye and hit the road.”

"Settle down." Toni actually sounds sympathetic. "I know time is short, but Betty's relinquishing her husband to help us." The woman running the clinic just murmurs a response, something about time getting really short for 'Jason'.

Her lips burning from Jughead’s final passion, Betty turns away and walks to the parking lot. She’s determined not to break down in front of strangers.

Even though Betty told her not to come, Veronica waits for her, leaning against a long, low limousine. “Smithers will drive us,” Veronica declares. “F that being on your own bullshit. You’re coming with me, and I'm spoiling you all day. Probably all night as well.”

#

Pedicure, facial, massage. Veronica has booked a full day of procedures in her home so Betty can lie on the bed and be taken care of for once. Twice she nearly nods off after her sleepless night and the effects of being pampered plus Veronica's expensive champagne. Each time Betty falls asleep, she sees Jughead in nightmare landscapes: being sliced in half by a sentient steam-driven machine, getting chained to a rock so birds can eat his innards, watching as he slowly dissolves into a heap of black sand.

Betty wakes on the massage table with a scream, and Veronica reaches for her hand. “I’m here,” she says. “Not going anywhere, B.”

Once they’re waxed and painted, the two go into the dining room for dinner. It’s hung with pale blue velvet drapes, and each table holds a bowl of peonies. Veronica has hired a chef who cooks up plates of delicacies: little pies, miniature sandwiches, and porcelain spoons filled with creamy soup.

Betty picks at the exquisite pastries with her fork, timing her requests for more wine so she doesn't appear like a lush. When Nick enters with Veronica's father, she uses the distraction to fill her glass to the brim while Veronica submits to their kisses. "A small gift," Hiram adds, handing V a velvet box.

"Daddy, this is the second time you've spoiled me this month, and it's not even my birthday." Veronica opens the box, picks up a strand of matched pearls, and tries them against her neck. "Like them, B?"

"Very nice," Nick approves. "Make sure you get them insured in case of theft." As he and Hiram head to the sideboard, Betty hears him add to Veronica's father, "Or loss. Remember how she mislaid the earrings I sent her from Ibiza?"

Her appetite gone, Betty pushes back the loaded plate. Is this how she is around Jughead, grateful for the favors he doles out, eternally waiting for signs that he really loves her after all? But the glowing words of love and loss Jughead wrote to her are in Betty's purse. _They have to be real,_ she thinks. _They just have to be._

Veronica grasps her arm suddenly. “Stop. You don’t have to eat to please me. Just – can you tell me what you want? I mean – is there anything I can give you that you’d like?”

 _Because no one can give you what you really want._ Those words hang unsaid between blue velvet and early peonies.

“Could we make ramen, go lie on your bed, and watch really stupid TV?” Betty asks.

Veronica puts down the lobster puff she’s eating. “Absolutely. Let’s do that. Daddy, we're going to the kitchen.”

"The kitchen!" Hiram pauses, a spear of asparagus on the tines of his fork. "We pay people to go there for us, Veronica."

"Well, I'm going to find out where it is and figure out how to use the microwave for ramen." Closing the door on Nick's scandalized reaction, Veronica seizes Betty's hand and marches down the hall with her nose in the air.

#

Since she can’t concentrate on anything resembling a plot, Betty proposes an ABBA video marathon on YouTube. Veronica frowns, but after two songs she jumps up and begins to dig in her closet for high boots and feather boas. “I know I had more sequins – aha! Satin jumpsuit, perfect.”

They dance on the bed and howl into their beer bottles, nearly spilling the ramen during an energetic rendition of Waterloo. After the final ‘woah woah woah,’ Betty collapses on the pillows and sighs. “You’re the best, V. I needed this.”

“We’re not done. Next up – glam make-up and Queen.”

“Not Fat Bottomed Girls?”

“Hell yeah Fat Bottomed Girls.” Veronica leans over Betty, reaches in a drawer, and pulls out a massive make-up case. “Get ready for black lipstick and fake lashes, Betty Mercury. We’re filming this round."

Betty stops her with one hand on Veronica's waist. "He kissed another woman, V. I know I should move on, but he's with her right now and there's nothing I can do about it and we didn't have another choice because it's Jellybean and other kids in danger but I just wish he wasn't there and is that a bad thing, V, I just don't want him to be..."

Veronica interrupts and completely stops Betty with a sudden, full-on kiss. Her best friend's mouth is far softer than any man's, teeth sharp on Betty's underlip. When they break apart, Veronica grins and says, "You know, I always wanted to try that. And maybe you needed to kiss someone else, since he stepped out on you first. Lucky me - you're a good kisser, B."

#

Sleep arrives like a thief in the night, stealing Betty away between The Go-Gos and Back in the New York Groove. She comes back to reality when Veronica shakes her shoulder, a receiver in her hand. “I hate like hell to wake you,” she says. “It’s that officer, the Topaz woman, and she says she needs to talk to you.”

Betty shudders, sits up, and takes the phone. “Hello?” she says, voice peppered with sleep.

“Betty? This is Toni. I just wanted to let you know your husband woke up.”

The iPhone nearly slides out of her grip. “Is – is he okay?”

“He’s fine,” Toni states. “The procedure was a success.”

A success. That means her Jughead is truly gone, the passionate guy who made love to her until neither of them could move. Betty stands up and walks to the bathroom, phone glued to her ear. “I’ll come right away.”

“You can’t. We need to question him as quickly as possible.”

“What?” Her toothbrush clatters into the sink. “Jughead doesn’t have a lawyer. Has he even been arraigned properly?”

“I really am sorry.” Toni clears her throat. “He’s waived all rights to an attorney. We’re taking him down to the station the minute he’s medically cleared.”

#

Although Veronica tries to distract her with more luxuries and begs her to stay longer ("It's so much better when you're with me, please don't go") Betty insists on going back to Thistlehouse. She spends the next few days editing, scrubbing the floors, and reorganizing the bookshelves. When she rereads the pile of typed sheets from Jughead it nearly breaks her.

_Promise me you’ll think of yourself._

_Can you promise me that, baby?_

Betty places his story on his desk and fumbles for her phone. She’s ready to keep the promise made to the man who no longer exists.

#

“Officer Topaz.”

“This is Betty Jones. I’m coming in to talk to Jughead today.”

“Sorry, there’s no way you can do that.” Toni chews and slurps, signaling Betty has interrupted her lunch. “We’re still hoping for a breakthrough, so he’s sequestered in my office until the questioning brings up some real leads.”

“I’m coming in,” Betty repeats. “Not a question.”

There’s a loud swallow followed by a discreet burp. “Thing is, he says he doesn’t want to see anyone.”

Betty winces and rubs her cheek. It’s easy to translate the officer’s words. ‘Anyone’ means one specific person. Her. She’s the person Jughead doesn’t want to see.

_Can you promise me that, baby?_

A flash of anger makes her sit up and grip the phone tighter. “Tell that pigheaded husband of mine I don’t give a shit what he wants, and before you remind me again there’s an investigation pending, surely you’re aware that I’m an accessory to fact. No serious detective would neglect to interview the witness’s spouse.”

“No serious detective, huh?” Although it’s not Facetime Betty can tell Toni is smiling in a first hint of emotion. “And I have to agree with the pigheaded description. He’s a huge pain in the ass.”

“With all due respect,” Betty declares, “I’m the only one who’s allowed to call him that.”

#

When she walks into the station, Jughead is slumped over a desk. “Told you I don't have any names,” he says into his folded arms. “I’ve thought and thought, and I can’t remember a single face, although the last few months have been a complete blur to tell you the truth.”

“Make that the last year,” Betty snaps.

His head jerks up, eyebrows shooting up to his hairline. Jughead’s floppy locks stand straight up, meaning he’s been clutching his curls with frustration.

The beanie is nowhere in sight.

“Oh no,” he groans. “Toni, you said no one would bother us…”

“Bother!” Fury shoots through Betty, and she slings her purse across the room where it crashes into a trashcan that tips over to spill a slew of cardboard coffee cups and, strangely, a sparkly purple dildo. “I bother you? You’re saying I’m a _bother_?”

“That wasn’t what I meant...”

His words only make her more enraged. “Why the hell did you say it then? You know what? You can go to hell and get fucked along the way with – with that purple penis in the trash.”

His brows shoot together. “Wait. I didn’t…”

“Didn’t what? Didn’t think? Didn’t learn to function like a reasonable adult? Didn’t realize I had feelings?” Her temper has fully launched like a clipper ship in a windy harbor. “I’m a person, not a robot or a mannequin! And I’ve put up with drug use and unexplained absences and your kiss with Strawberry Shortcake over there.” Betty punctuates this tirade by punching the desk. “Ow,” she adds.

Jughead stares at her, mouth open. “I’m – gosh. I don’t know what to say.”

“Just shut your face and tell me what evidence you’ve covered with Officer Topaz. Later you can kiss my feet and swear to never, ever talk about ‘bothering you’ again.”

“Oh damn.” Toni hands over Betty’s purse. “I don’t know if I’m more scared or turned on right now, to tell you the truth. But we really need to get back to questioning you both about the HLE highway…”

Both Betty and Jughead ignore her. “I saw you,” Betty says. The words are grit and sawdust in her mouth, and she punctuates the statement with a finger-stab at Jughead’s face. “With her, with Officer Topaz. You Facetimed me by mistake that night, and I heard everything. Saw you kiss her, heard you tell her you didn’t sleep in the same bed with your wife so it was fine if you hooked up.”

“Sex with your husband would never have happened since I was undercover and on the job, but I guess that’s beside the point.” Toni opens her mouth as if she’s going to say more and seems to think better of it.

Jughead’s eyes grow huge. “Holy shit. _That’s_ the final memory. That’s – right, it all makes sense now – it’s why I left the club. Now I remember – I thought I wanted an affair but when it was actually about to happen I was all, No no no, and I couldn’t go through with it, I knew I could never go to bed with someone else, and I took off out of that club, got on my bike, and took off.”

He rises and walks in a circle, rubbing his jaw. “And then – oh shit, it’s all coming back to me – the Jangle must have kicked in because I saw _you_ , Betty. Right in the middle of the road. Standing like an angel in a white silk nightgown, arms outstretched as though you would forgive me for everything, all the stupid shit I did. The sight made me brake too fast, and the bike went down. _That's_ what happened.”

“I waited up for you that night even though you told me not to in your shitty little note,” Betty says. “Believe it or not, I was wearing a white silk nightgown.”

“We have to get back to the investigation,” Toni repeats. She looks between the two of them and heaves a huge sigh. “You know what? Never mind. This is getting interesting.”

“No, you’re right,” Betty agrees. “What do you need to accomplish here, Toni? Let’s start with that.”

“Okay.” Toni seems to gather herself and flaps a file folder at them. “If we can figure out who was contacting Jughead to start a drug pipeline through Riverdale, you two can actually go home tonight. So let’s concentrate on the evidence in this file and see if it jogs your memory.”

The officer, five feet of concentrated intelligence and determination, drops the folder on the desk where Jughead was sitting. Betty tears her gaze from his face, gazes idly at the tab, and frowns. She’s seen it before: a three and a seven followed by an H, but her tired brain can’t place it. “Jug,” she says, “can you just tell me how this whole thing started? And don’t leave anything out.”

“I was contacted by a guy one night a few months ago.” Jughead picks up the folder and flips through it. “He approached me in the men’s room at the club, said he could get me cheaper thrills if I got him into Sunnyside and the Wyrm. Guess I don’t need to add that I was strung out at the time.”

“So you don’t remember his face.” Betty finishes his thought for him. “But why would you even talk to a guy like that? I know you were a user, but drug-dealing was the _last_ thing you’d ever get involved in. Unless it was for…”

“Research. I thought I could do a series of investigative articles on Jangle, except I got too involved with my subject.”

“Hoo boy.” Betty collapses on one corner of the desk and turns to Toni. “Hashtag Jack Sparks. I assume you’ve tried image recapture, hypnosis, memory immersion?”

“Of course.” Toni takes the folder from Jughead and pulls out a thick sheaf of stapled papers. “You can see the results here, here, and here. They’ve all yielded nothing.”

Sleepless nights make Betty feel heavy and useless, the sensation of swimming in maple syrup. “I’m tired. It’s time to go home.”

Jughead frowns. “You shouldn’t have come here in the first place. Go get some sleep, and we can go over all of this tomorrow.”

“You are coming with me, and that is not negotiable.” She raises one eyebrow and crosses her arms, feeling as though she just channeled Alice Cooper.

“Oh.” When his voice goes soft like that, she can almost imagine Jughead – her own Juggie – is back. “If you put it that way, then okay.”


	5. Chapter 5

Betty tries to concentrate on the road instead of the silent man next to her in the passenger seat. 50’s jazz is playing on the radio, and outside the wind begins to pick up. It’s a perfect noir scene, giving her the sensation that any minute hooded figures will appear in the middle of the road led by a one-armed man intent on revenge.

The scene at the police station teases her memory like a carnival prize just out of reach. Betty knows she’s missing an obvious clue to Toni’s investigation, but she’s distracted by Jughead’s nearness. She could brush his old Sherpa jacket with her fingertips, and yet he’s totally out of reach at the same time.

Three nights ago he couldn’t get enough of her, slipping out just long enough to catch his breath before making love to her again. _I can’t let you go again,_ she told him, but of course that was an idiotic statement. There’s no other choice, not unless they finally confront each other and he asks for a divorce and she has to do the impossible and live life without…

“Hey.” Jughead’s voice is rough. “Your hands are shaking. Pull over.”

Betty slams on the brakes so suddenly they both pitch forward before slamming back into their seats. Her window is rolled down slightly, and she can hear Sweetwater’s siren call harmonizing with the windy night. “If you’re going to leave me,” she gasps, “just tell me now and get it over with because I can’t deal with this torture any longer.”

He twists to face her, and for the first time since they got in the car Betty feels the full force of Jughead’s gaze. “Good,” he remarks.

Anger is hot quicksilver pouring through her veins. “Good? Good? What the fuck does that mean? Good you get to leave me? Because you could have done that at any time. I haven’t slapped a pair of handcuffs on you and tied you to the bed – not yet at any rate. How dare you sit there with that enigmatic smirk on your damn face and tell me Good?”

Once the words start they pour out of her. She doesn’t recognize her own voice or the things she’s saying, and with a kind of dismayed horror Betty realizes she can’t stop. A minute or hours later, she comes to her senses against a flannel chest. Jughead’s arms are around her, and his breath whistles in her ear. “Sorry,” she hiccups.

“Don’t you dare apologize. I told you I wanted you to think about yourself for once.”

He twists in the seat to pull something out of his back pocket. An old-fashioned handkerchief is pushed into her fist, and Betty wipes her eyes, blows her nose. The air blowing into the cab is icy, but in Jughead’s arms she feels her skin gradually warming up. The radio music grows low and sultry, and she thinks she could stay in this moment forever, exhausted by her recent tantrum.

Recognition sparks her to push away and sit up. “You just said you wanted me to think about myself. But how did you know about that?”

Jughead’s mouth twists, a complex triangle of dimples appearing in one cheek. “I’m still here,” he whispers.

“You... Jughead? _My_ Juggie?”

“I certainly don’t belong to anyone else.”

The car sways from a sudden onslaught of wind, but Betty ignores it. She swings out of her seat straight onto his lap, watches his grin grow wider, and leans forward to capture his earlobe between her teeth. “Why the fuck did you stay at the station and refuse to see me?” she hisses. “Why were you acting like a smacked ass pumped up on bastard juice? Why the hell didn’t you reach out to me?”

“I – gosh, your teeth are sharp, not that I’m complaining – Betts, just listen to me for one minute.”

She releases him, folds her arms, and raises one eyebrow. “59 seconds. Go on.”

“I’m still here,” he repeats, tapping one temple. “But he’s in here too. It’s really confusing, and I know I sound like a maniac, but I have a waterfall of images and memories, and they’re all so overwhelming. I see you being heartbroken, and I know I caused it, and now I also remember what I did to break you, and – Betts. I’m so sorry.”

Betty stops him by leaning in once more and capturing his lower lip between her incisors. “Was it the drugs?” she whispered. “Or was it…”

His arms tighten around her waist. “I remember my mom passing away, and I took off for a few days without telling you, and when I came back home you had lost the baby, and after that I just couldn’t be in my own head. I hated what I’d done to you. Stayed in a motel. Looked at my face in the mirror one night and had to leave so I wouldn’t drive my fist into the glass to smash it. I hated myself for what I’d done.”

If she doesn't rear away from him, she'll end up smacking his handsome face. “And if that isn’t the heart of the problem right there!” Betty shouts. “You hated yourself so much, detested yourself so badly you ran away from everything – from me, Jug. You ran from us, and for what? For powder in a paper straw? For a night of forgetting? For nights of passion with other women? Did I really mean so little to you?” The words tumble out, all the things she never said and hid away so carefully like sordid secrets in a bottom drawer.

“You’re exactly right. You couldn’t be more right. But if it means anything at all, I never slept with another woman. Never. Even in the worst days of my addiction, I stayed faithful except for that damn kiss with Toni, and I wish I could erase it from my mind.” She tries to ease out of his arms, but he tightens his hold on her. “But maybe, just maybe it was a good thing. When I was confronted with having an affair, that it might really occur, it made me sick. Even though the Jangle in my system was egging me on to take Toni upstairs and get my rocks off, I couldn’t because I didn’t want to.”

“You didn’t want to,” Betty repeats. “And then you left the club on your bike, drove for a while, and saw me in the middle of the road?”

His face creases with that mischievous smile. “Wearing a very sexy nightgown, I might add.”

Betty leans in a touch away from his lips and breathes, “Do you want me?”

“Oh, fuck yeah.”

“You could have me now, but we’re in a car. Anyone could drive by and see.”

His answer is pulling her in for a long and luxurious kiss. “Missed you,” he whispers. “Was afraid to see you after the procedure. All those needles, all the pain, and I didn’t think you deserved me.

“We need to shut that down right now. Marriage counseling therapy,” Betty murmurs, “and we’re going together.”

His hand slides up her inner thigh, finds the delicate silk of her panties. With one firm twist Jughead tears the lace so she’s open for him. And Betty’s shaking again as she feels for his belt, undoes the buckle, feels him line up against her.

She’s wet, so wet, and they’re kissing and Jughead helps her lift and slide onto him with a single thrust. It feels like coming home, so sweet and filling that Betty could cry from it.

He’s kissing her and bucking up between her thighs, and their little roadside fuck is quick and hot and dirty and just what she wants. “Want you,” Jughead says into her mouth, “want you so bad.”

“Then take me,” Betty sobs, and he’s demanding Yeah? Yeah? Just like that? And she promises Yeah, just like that.

“Bite me again,” he whispers. “I like it.”

And she sinks her teeth into the soft flesh of his neck, and he arches up inside her with an explosion of heat, and the jazz mounts to a crescendo on the radio, and the car shudders, and for one strange moment Betty doesn’t know who’s making love to her: the music, the windy night, or the dark man she just can’t evict from her heart.

#

Dr. Yee looks at her notes one last time as the couple enters her office. _Pregnancy loss leading to lack of intimacy and distance,_ she reads. _Emotional abuse, drug use, some drinking. Verge of divorce._

The husband seems sullen as he subsides with a sigh into the brown leather couch. Forsythe Pendleton Jones III, the doctor reads, preferred name Jughead.

His wife is bright where he is dark, upright in contrast to his slouch. _Opposites. Married in passion. Discovered just how different they are._

She leads off with her usual introduction, how all emotions and thoughts are worthwhile and even valuable, how nothing leaves her office since it is a safe space, and what she plans for the next few sessions. “Now,” she concludes, “what can you tell me? Why did you search for therapy?”

“Emotional abuse.” The answer comes from Jughead in a graceless grunt.

“I see.” Lyann Yee recrosses her legs and looks up from her notes. “Could I ask for more details?”

“I abused my wife for over year while I did drugs. Essentially I was addicted to Jangle. We’re here to get protection for Betty so it never happens again.” Jughead turns towards his wife, and Lyann can almost visualize the instinctive pull between them, a rare occurrence in cases of emotional abuse.

“Betty, do you want to add to that?” she asks.

“I’m not free from blame, either. After we lost the baby I threw myself into my work as escape. Everything had to be perfect or I'd lose my mind and start shouting. Looking back, I can see it was a desperate attempt to shield myself from reality, but at the same time I put a wedge between us. The only thing that made sense was vodka and plenty of it.”

Jughead’s voice drops. “You were simply doing the best you could.”

“I nearly went full OCD. Remember how I used to refold the laundry if you did it, as though there was some ridiculous fitted-sheet spec I had to adhere to? And sort the silverware in the dishwasher? And flip out if a dessert fork got in with the fish knives?” Betty shakes her head. “Ridiculous.”

“I’m pretty sure sorting forks doesn’t rank with dropping drugs and staying out all night,” Jughead argues.

Lyann feels as if the session is already sliding out of control. The pair in front of her are attacking themselves instead of each other – a completely new occurrence. She clears her throat and asks, “Could you tell me what you’d like to accomplish here over the next few months?”

For the first time, Jughead’s eyes light up with enthusiasm. “I want to be a better spouse.”

“Okay.” Lyann can work with that, even though it’s an unusual statement from an abuser. “I’d certainly recommend a separate drug recovery programs for you as a former addict, flanked with AA if you were drinking to excess and feel you might slide back into that lifestyle…”

“Oh, Juggie’s already doing a 12-step program.” Betty’s face softens with a slight smile, and she puts her hand on his sleeve. “He’s cut out everything, including caffeine. I’m so proud of you, Jug.”

“Could you tell me more about the abuse?” Lyann asks.

“I used separation as a weapon,” Jughead states. “If my wife tried to talk to me about our relationship, I’d stay out all night or for an entire weekend.”

She nods. “At the time I was afraid to approach him about it. It seemed saying the wrong thing would set him off, and I retreated into work and more vodka.”

“I’m so sorry,” he mouths. They’re mirrored in matching positions on the couch. Lyann pretends to look over her notes as Jughead reaches up, brushes a curl off Betty’s forehead, and cups her jaw in a gesture so filled with raw love it nearly makes the doctor tremble. Whatever they have between them, it's as intense as if they lived inside each other's skulls.

“It seems you both care for each other deeply,” she says. “To be honest, that isn't documented much, if at all, in cases like this. That said, I’m not discounting what happened to you both in the past, and I do want to work with you to continue to strengthen what looks like a flourishing marriage. Neither of you wants to slide back into the past – am I correct? – and we can find ways to make it more certain that will never happen. Emotional abuse is very dangerous and insidious, so I’d recommend some sessions alone with you, Betty, as well as couple therapy.”

“Perfect.” Jughead never tears his gaze off Betty’s face.

“I do have to commend you for the work you’ve done already,” Lyann adds, twiddling her pen. “Seeking help for addiction is a difficult step, so if that’s underway already we’re ahead of the game. “And is intimacy still a problem? I can recommend several courses of action, including some …”

Betty giggles, and Jughead smiles into his wife's eyes. For a moment Lyann feels the searing heat between them, and it hits her.

_They can’t keep their hands off each other._

After getting a detailed description of their troubled year and going into some future steps for their therapy sessions, Lyann stands up and closes the folder. It’s been one of the strangest encounters she’s had as a marriage therapist, and she can’t help wondering why Jughead spent so long being abusive before doing a complete turn-around to support his wife – defending her against himself.

Perhaps the recent addiction changed his personality. Lyann remembers the chemical make-up of Jangle, its similarities to semi-synthetic opioids and full synthetics such as fentanyl. She knows addicts experience dramatic changes, but she’s never seen someone who accuses himself. Usually abusers are blind to the harm they do and consider themselves innocent, pathologically so. To see someone who wants to protect his wife from himself is completely original.

She’s so lost in her thoughts Lyann doesn’t realize she’s knocked the Jones folder onto the ground until Betty picks it up. “Oops!” she laughs. “I’m always knocking things over, especially at the wrong time of the month. Here's your folder…”

Her face changes. Lyann quickly takes the papers, since they’re confidential and not for a patient’s viewing.

Jughead helps his wife to her feet, puts one arm around her waist, and guides her to the door. “What is it?” Lyann hears him say. “I saw your face back there. Are you okay?”

“I’m fine. But, oh, Juggie, I just realized there’s a key to the case, and I’ve been the one holding it this whole time. And if my suspicions are correct, then it could change everything.”


	6. Chapter 6

“Okay, Miss Marple.” Jughead walks into the office where Betty rifles through a corner drawer of her desk. “You didn’t say anything beyond Yes, No, and Uh Huh on the way home, so I know you're heading towards a conclusion. What’s on your mind?”

She finds the pile of envelopes and pulls them out. “I realized I forgot to give you your mail from when you were away in hospital.” The stack is slender, another reminder of how many people he cut out of his life over the past year.

Jughead leans one fist on the desk, braces the other on the back of her chair, and stares into her face. “That’s it? You were concerned about my mail?" He clicks the little pile with one fingernail. "Do people even get mail any longer, Betts? I thought it was all Snapbook and Facegram these days.”

“Don’t pull your curmudgeon act with me. You might pretend you spend your days on a porch swing waving a walking stick at young whippersnappers, but you and I both know better.” There’s a rap on the window just as he’s about to go in for a kiss. “Hang onto that thought,” Betty adds.

Toni’s small shape is visible through the antique wavy glass Jughead insisted on installing in their windows. He opens the back door, and the police officer rushes inside without greeting him to launch into Betty. “You better have something for me. I bugged out of a meeting with the StreetSafe committee, and if your information is bogus it’s my ass on the line.”

Betty looks up from the envelopes. “StreetSafe? I wrote a series of articles about that group long before anyone thought it would take off. Hey, if you need help or have any ideas that need write-ups for those kids, just let me know.”

“Yeah, actually that would be great!” Toni’s pink braids bounce on her shoulders. “I want to get into the Southside, work with the gang-members there, maybe involve some of the younger ones in community outreach.”

“Oh, excellent. They have a lot of at-risk kids over there. I have a million ideas I could bounce off you when you have time.”

“Ahem.” Jughead cranes his neck and pushes his face into Betty's, smiling at her belly-laugh. “I’m all about community outreach, but can we get back to this case? Because you’ve been keeping me in suspense, and I need to know what you’ve …” He indicates the little pile in her hand.

“What I’ve got here. Right.” Betty sobers and shuffles through his mail. “It came to me when Dr. Yee dropped our folder. I saw our last name upside-down, and for a second I thought it was 53N0 and what looked like a candy cane. Then I realized those weren’t numbers but letters: JONES.”

“I have zero idea of what you’re talking about,” Toni states.

“Remember that stupid trick Reggie used to do with an old calculator when we were in 8th grade?” Betty asks Jughead. “He’d punch in some stupid math problem, get the answer, turn it around, and…”

“And the numbers would spell BOOBIES,” Jughead recalls. “What about it?”

“Look. Toni, did you bring the case file? See how if you hold it upside down it looks like 37H? But turn it around and it’s three letters. HLE.” Both the officer and Jughead look at Betty blankly, and she waves his letter under their noses. “The same mark that’s on this envelope. I saw it the night of your accident, Jug, and wondered what 37H stood for. Uh, in my defense I had just polished off a few vodkas. I was using it for a cocktail coaster instead of the note you ….”

“The note I left you when I went out,” Jughead says harshly. “Telling you not to wait up for me.”

Toni begins to laugh. “I’m beginning to see why you two are back together. You always finish each others’…” She waits, but no one replies. “Uh, forget it. Betty, I need to open that letter. Is that okay?” Already she’s pulling out a pair of blue rubber gloves and a Swiss army knife to slit it open and pull out the folded paper inside. “Dear Force,” she reads, and swivels to Jughead. “’Force’, really?”

“One of my biggest mistakes in a time of truly dreadful decisions,” he murmurs. “Read on.”

_Dear Force,_

_I enjoyed meeting you last evening and have considered your offer. If you decide to join Lost Highway and earn my trust, I will send you the password to the link below. It will give you the full details to our project, which I’m certain you’ll find rewarding on many levels._

“That’s it?” Betty peers over Toni’s shoulder. “Wait, there’s the shortened link plus another word – _atentamente_.”

The officer gives her a n unimpressed look. “Typical Spanish sign-off.”

“But don’t you see?” Betty throws her arms wide. “That gives you a clue about the …”

“Person who wrote this,” Jughead says.

“Annnd we’re back to the finishing each other’s sentences thing.” Toni gestures to Betty’s laptop. “May I use this to check out the url in the letter?”

“Absolutely. I’m pretty curious myself.” Betty hangs over Toni’s shoulder as the officer inputs the shortened link.

When it loads, there’s a burst of static before the title comes up in the header: _Lost Highway._ The screen shows nothing but the url and a picture of three books with leather covers on a dark and empty road. In the middle there’s a prompt box with a blinking cursor, obviously waiting for a password.

“We can at least figure out how many character there are and extrapolate from there.” Toni types in a row of X’s: five of them. Before she hits enter, the screen wavers and red text appears: INVALID LOG-IN. Next to it a 3 disappears and becomes a 2.

Jughead swears. “Auto log-in after hitting the 5th key. I’m guessing that precludes background hacks?”

“You would be guessing correctly.” Toni shoves away from the computer and paces in a tight circle. “A dead end, and there was another missing kid last night. Have either of you heard of Lost Highway before?”

"No, sorry." Betty points to the image. “Maybe the books lying on the road are significant. It could be a clue to the password.”

“Spine,” Jughead says instantly. “Or write, both 5-letter words associated with books.”

He taps the image on the screen, but Toni heads him off. “Watch out! We only have 2 more tries. If we can get into this website, it might tell us where the pipeline is and who’s behind it. We could investigate before the people behind this even know we’re on their trails.” She stands and rubs the small of her back with a grimace. “Stay away from this for now, and I’ll see if I can bring in a hacker to take a look.”

“Okay.” Betty’s unconvinced. The Lost Highway site’s careful guards probably extend to the back end as well with possible lockout or data compromise as a result. “It’s a puzzle, and maybe we just need to keep working on it since we don’t know the answer.”

“Yet.” Jughead’s fascination lights up his eyes. “We don’t know it - _yet_.”

#

As soon as Toni leaves, he’s up behind Betty where she stands at the door: mouth on her neck, fingers splayed on her waist. “Come here,” he says. “Come here, Betts.”

She turns so easily in his arms, and he’s on her again with a deep kiss. Before she can say anything, Jughead hoists her up in the air, carries her to the stairs, and puts her on the step before going in again. “So fucking smart,” he says against her mouth. “Jesus, you’re brilliant and you feel amazing. This okay? Okay if I kiss you here, and here, and here?”

“Yes it’s okay,” Betty manages to gasp, “but don’t you want to go upstairs?”

“Can’t wait that long. This feels too good.”

He’s kissing her, blowing inside her ear, gripping her hips. Betty feels him, hard as sin between her legs, and she winds her legs around his hips to thrust against him. “Want you,” Jughead says. “Want you so bad.”

Betty grips his shoulders and moves. It’s fast and frantic, and she can feel him throbbing against her. After years of being with him, she knows Jughead’s body nearly as well as her own. “Are you going to…?”

“Come, yes I am, gonna make a mess right here with you, come with me let’s do it.”

She wriggles, little circles against him, teasing them both as they lose their minds to each other.

#

Under the warm shower, Betty stands in Jughead’s arms and strokes his wet skin. “HLE,” she muses. “Lost Highway. And a book. What does a book have to do with it? And what’s the 5-letter word?”

“Spine,” he repeats. “Write, Wrote, Reads, Genre, Inked, Page – no, not page. That’s 4 letters, for crying out loud. You make me dumb and happy, woman.”

Realization crashes over her like a poker to the skull, and she steps back. “Page,” Betty repeats. “Page."

"What about Page?"

"Jug, that’s it. Oh my God - Now I know HLE’s identity, and what the password is, and who’s behind Lost Highway. And I’m so afraid to tell you, because it could destroy us.”


	7. Chapter 7

Toni meets them at the police station. “You sure you know the password?” she demands, putting her hand on Betty’s arm to guide her into the office. “We only have two more chances before we’re kicked out forever on this site.”

“I’m sure.” Certainty runs through Betty’s veins. She knows her suspicions are correct, and the knowledge breaks her heart. “The password is Page.”

“Page.” Toni looks up at Betty blankly. “That’s four letters, babe.”

“It’s spelled P A I G E,” Betty explains. “Not a page in a book, the girl’s name*.”

“How do you know?” Jughead demands.

Sudden tears prick Betty’s eyes as she points to the book in the onscreen image of the volumes lying in the middle of the highway. “Can you zoom in, Toni? See the title on the top novel?”

“War and Peace. What about it?”

“It was made into a movie starring Audrey Hepburn. And the second?” Betty points.

“Truman Capote,” Jughead says harshly. “Breakfast at Tiffany’s. I see what you’re getting at, Betts. And I bet the third is Pygmalion, right?”

“Green Mansions, but you were close.”

“Well, I’m clueless,” Toni mutters. “The hell are you two talking about?”

“Those books were all turned into Audrey Hepburn movies,” Jughead explains. “And we know someone – oh my gosh, yes! Paige! Betty, you’re amazing. That’s totally the password to get in.”

He reaches for the keyboard just as Toni sets down her coffee cup, and the movement jostles her arm. Betty, in an eternal slow-motion Nooo moment, tries to get between them, but it’s too late.

Toni’s elbow plonks onto the computer and makes five X’s appear onscreen. _Incorrect sign-in,_ Lost Highway warns as the red 2 cycles to 1.

“Damn it!” Jughead rams shaking fingers through the spikes of his sleep-do. “Can’t you be more careful, Topaz? We can’t just dive in and wrestle the laptop like a pack of wild animals.”

“What?” Toni’s jaw drops. “You shoved me into that keyboard harder than a Walmart shopper with an “I Want to See the Manager” haircut who’s second in line on Black Friday.”

Despite her sadness, Betty can’t help smiling. “Hey kids,” she says. “Type in PAIGE – and carefully this time.”

The officer crosses her arms. “Not until you explain so I understand. I’m not giving up this final chance.”

Very gently, Jughead puts one arm around Betty’s waist. “Go ahead,” he murmurs. “Tell her.”

“It was my best friend, Veronica. She loves Audrey Hepburn, so when I saw the books I knew it had something to do with her. Before I knew her, V had a watershed moment that changed her life. In New York she was the popular type, beautiful and rich to boot. I guess it went to her head, and her friend at the time made her bully another student. They talked the girl into meeting them by the side of a road late at night for a party and said they’d stop and pick her up. Veronica’s friend never showed up, so the kid waited for hours and didn’t return home until morning – she had to walk for miles.”

“She was nearly hit by a car,” Jughead explains. “And can you guess the name of Veronica’s former bestie?”

Toni’s face lights up with sudden understanding. “Paige,” she says. “Oh, my god, that’s amazing. But wait.” She twirls her chair to face Betty. “What does your best friend have to do with a drug pipeline running through Riverdale? Do I need to book her right now and bring her in?”

“Not her,” Jughead says with a scowl. “Veronica’s father, the CEO of Corrections Corpus.”

“Hiram Lodge,” Betty adds. “His businesses go under his umbrella organization, better known as Hiram Lodge Enterprises.”

“HLE.” Toni picks up the folder lying beside the computer and taps the tab. “Holy shit. But it’s so blatant, almost as if he wanted to get caught.”

“Maybe he thought he was so smart that no one would ever figure it out,” Jughead says. “Guess he never bargained on my wife.”

Toni isn’t really paying attention. Intent on the screen, she types in P A I G E. Betty holds her breath and releases it with a long whoosh when the highway disappears, replaced by a myriad of ext. file names. JJ Rdale 9/16, she reads. JJ Gdale 11/17.

She’s not sure if it’s relief or disappointment hitting her veins like ice.

#

“I couldn’t have survived the past few months without Veronica,” Betty says. “When you were in the clinic she made herself available 24-7, and how do I repay her? By involving her dad in the biggest scandal ever encountered in this town?”

Dimly she feels Jughead’s arms go around her. “We’ll figure it out,” he whispers. “Promise. Maybe she’ll understand why you had to do it. Kids went missing. _Kids_.”

“I know.” Betty gives him a trembling smile. “Guess we’ll find out when Toni moves ahead with the next phase.”

“Which should be soon, if her victorious mwah-ha and hand-rubbing as we left her office mean anything.” Pulling her into a long hug, Jughead nibbles Betty’s neck and whispers, “Are you okay? Need anything?”

“Vodka. I hate to say this, but I need vodka. No, don’t leave to pour me a glass – I’ve been relying on alcohol for a while now, and just now I’m starting to realize how much.”

“Yeah?” Jughead pushes back to look into her face, his eyes wide with new comprehension. “If there’s anyone in the world who can relate, it’s this guy.”

“I know.” Betty goes on tiptoe and kisses him briefly. “It’s such a relief to know you understand what’s going on with me.” They grin at each other, and Betty wonders how long it’s been since they had a moment completely free of awkward words and delicate skating around the black ice of their past.

“I can feel you vibrating with the need for action. Go and give Veronica a call, and let me know if you need me. I’ll be in the next room staring at semicolons.”

“Semicolons, eh?” Betty smacks him on the ass, giggles when Jughead yells Hey, and hops out of reach before he can retaliate. But when she’s alone, she squeezes the phone and brings it to her teeth, wishing she didn’t have to take the next step.

_Punch the contact, a number Betty’s dialed so often it scrolls up first in her friends list._

_Wait for a few rings._

_Collapse into the chair when Veronica answers, her voice warm with affection._

“Hey, girl! I was just about to call you. How’s everything going? I have plan that involves you, and pastries, and shoe-shopping. What do you say?”

“V,” Betty gasps. “Pastries and shoes sounds like Marie Antoinette heaven, but first I have to tell you something and I’m not sure how to start.”

“Hang on,” Veronica says. “I’m getting a weird text, that can’t be right, what the hell?”

A few moments pass, Betty’s heart beating like a frantic metronome in her chest. “V,” she says again.

Her best friend responds with one short sentence, the coldest and most cruel thing Betty has ever heard Veronica say. Before she can respond, the phone clicks off.

“No.” Betty sobs, types a quick text begging Veronica to let her explain, even if she can’t see Betty right now, maybe in a few weeks they can meet and just talk…

Even though she waits until the afternoon light dims and turns to silver twilight through the wavy glass windows, there’s no response from her best friend.

#

Jughead’s writing continues. Each morning he has breakfast with Betty, and they chat about her edits, plans for his next chapter, when they have to head to therapy again. She nails a promotion at the publishing house and has to take the train into the city several times a week.

In the evenings Jughead meets her and they go for dinner or just a walk along the river. Other nights she rides home on her own, scribbling lines of dialogue and descriptions of the people around her into a notebook. A steady diet of sobriety and sex have awoken a singing voice within her, and one night she finds she’s written a short story about Audrey Hepburn.

That night, over cups of cocoa beside the fire, she shows her piece to Jughead. “It’ll never amount to anything,” Betty says. “I’m not a fiction writer like you. But it was fun to imagine what happens behind her face, the famous one we’ve all seen.”

He smoothes the notebook page, rereads a line, and looks up. “It’s certainly very raw, but I think you might have something here. I really like your concept of what the world sees contrasted with the unexplored wilderness within.”

#

They get the news from the local channel and Jughead’s morning paper. Hiram Lodge is arrested, brought in for questioning, and subsequently hires the best lawyers possible.

There’s still no word from Veronica.

#

Archie stops by one night with a six-pack and a pizza. “Non-alcoholic,” he blurts when Jughead eyes the beverages.

“You okay with that, Betts?” Jughead murmurs.

She laughs. “Absolutely fine.” There have been a few moments over the past weeks when she’s been desperate for a drink, but lately the thought of liquor makes her gag. “You guys dig in, and I’ll grab napkins.”

In the kitchen, Betty tosses a quick salad, loads a basket with dressing and home-made croutons, and tops her booty with paper plates. She reflects, pulls a gingerale out of the fridge, and sticks it in the pocket of her hoodie.

When she returns, Archie’s in the middle of a long story. He leands over his spread knees, forgotten slice in one hand as he talks in a low tone. “Veronica has no idea where she’s even going to live. Nick totally fucked her over, said he’d never be with the daughter of a criminal. Her mom is waitressing at Pops, believe it or not. They’ve lost everything.”

“Arch.” Jughead’s warning is flat but filled with meaning.

“Juggie, Archie’s right. We _need_ to talk about this.” Betty plops her basket on the coffee table and hands Archie a plate. “I’m not going to swoon because you mention Veronica in my hearing. And if she needs help, then for God’s sake tell me what we can do.”

“I appreciate that, I really do.” Archie wipes both hands on a napkin and cracks open Betty’s bottle for her. “But I think you gotta let me take this one.”

#

Jughead’s novel is going well, Betty’s job is on rocket trajectory, and therapy has been incredibly helpful. They’re having the best sex of their lives. The old house seems to glow as fall mellows into an early winter.

She should be happy, but Betty sometimes finds herself in tears at for no reason. It’s increasingly difficult to get out of bed in the morning, and throughout the long month of October, she sends a weekly text begging for a chance to talk.

Veronica never responds.

The early news plays the same, dreary cycle. With one massive bail payment, Hiram returns to his old life as though nothing ever happened. Nick is rumored to be seeing Veronica again, Hermione quits her waitressing job, and the Lodges return to their luxurious high-rise.

It seems the past month has been useless.

After finding Betty in tears over a frying pan, Jughead takes her to breakfast at Pops, sits next to her, and holds her hand under the table. “You needn’t worry about me,” Betty says. “I’ll be fine.”

“Stop saying that.” He raises her hand to his lips but turns her arm at the last second to kiss her wrist. “You are allowed to be weak sometimes, missy.”

She flicks him a quick glance. “Now that you mention it, you’d better vacuum when we get home. I simply don’t feel up to it.”

“Wait!” He pretends to gasp. “That’s not what I …”

“Mind if I join?”

Veronica slides into the booth without waiting for an answer and fixes her gaze on Betty. “Could we have a moment alone?”

“Only if Betty says so.” Jughead leans his head close and whispers, “Want me to take you home? And don’t just tell me you’re fine.”

“I’m fine.” Betty squeezes his hand and adds, “Why don’t you go and buy some pie for later?”

“Pie, huh? I like pie.” He kisses her cheek, nods curtly at Veronica, and strides towards the dessert towers by the register.

“V, I just want to say how sorry I am. I should have told you what was happening, except the cops kerblammed into the case, and we only realized the truth right at the end, and there were kids involved.” Betty gabbles the speech she’s planned for several nights at 3 am when she can’t sleep, but of course it emerges all twisted and clumsy.

Veronica closes her eyes and raises one palm. “Enough. I didn’t want to hear it because I was in a bad place with Nick. He screwed me up until I didn’t know what was dark or light. And when Archie tried to help, I told him to fuck off.”

“Wait.” The conversation has pitched off the rails, slid over a cliff, and crashed into the ocean. “Nick? You didn’t call me back because of Nick?”

“I was also furious with you at the beginning, but I’m sure you can imagine the poison he poured into my ear to exacerbate my anger. ‘Old families must stick together, blood is thicker than milkshakes,’ blah blah blah.”

“He never had a Pops milkshake then.” Betty’s surprised when Veronica erupts with delicate laughter at the dumb joke, head thrown back and one hand on her throat, and a rush of affection fills her lungs like cool air. “I’ve missed you so much,” Betty says impulsively. “Those months when my marriage was falling apart… I never would have made it without you.”

Veronica’s mouth curls in her signature cat smile. “I know, I’m the best. But now I might need you, since my relationship has ended. Gave him the boot at 2:30 in the am. Ironic, no? Your union is obviously flourishing, while Nick and I are done.”

“I’m glad. He was a dick.”

With another snort of laughter, Veronica agrees. “Archie said the same thing, except I never wanted to hear it.”

“Okay.” Betty summons her courage and asks, “Um, what about your dad?”

“Yeah. What about him?” Veronica reaches for Betty’s waffle and dunks it in syrup. “You know what I think? The very reason I put up with Nick for so long is because of my dad. I was raised to believe emotional coldness and overwhelming patriarchy were the norm – a standard, if you will. The only form affection that ever made sense to me was paid in carats.”

Relief makes Betty collapse against the padded back of the booth. “What about us?”

Throwing down the waffle, Veronica dusts invisible crumbs off her gloves before getting up, sliding into the seat beside Betty, and pulling her into a hug. “I was mad at you because you wouldn’t leave Jughead,” she whispers. “I thought if you could do managed to escape and get a chic little apartment, maybe I had a chance at freedom as well. But when things started turning around for you, I realized I’d be all alone in my gilded cage.”

“It’s been hell without you. When we figured out your dad was behind the Jangle highway in Riverdale, I wanted to bury all the evidence.” Betty sits back, scrubs her eyes quickly with a napkin. “But since children were involved, of course we had to go ahead with it.”

“Suffice to say that I’ve cut him out of my life as well as Nick. This is Veronica 2.0. What do you think?”

A chirp from her phone makes Betty jump. Archie has sent five texts, starting with _Oh Hai_ and spiraling into all caps: IS RONNIE THERE AND WILL SHE LET ME BUY HER COFFEE. Smothering a snort-giggle, Betty holds out the phone to Veronica and watches, fascinated, as a pleased blush suffuses her friend’s features. “Coffee! Hmm. I suppose I could survive some mediocre caffeine. Wait, tell him I want tea instead. Keep him on his toes, right?”

 _V wants tea,_ Betty texts. _But I think you’re in._

 _She can have fucking_ _Jeppson’s Malört if_ _her beautiful heart desires_.

“Betts.” Jughead appears beside the booth, eyes wide and a pink box in one hand. “Toni just called. She says they’ve found Jellybean.”

“What?” She climbs over Veronica and stands so suddenly it bumps his arm, making the pie box fall onto the ground with a wet sploosh of cherry filling. “Are you serious? We have to go down to the station right now.”

“Yeah.” His face creases suddenly before he steps forward to pulls her into a tight hug. Dimly, Betty hears Veronica complain that there are pastry crumbs all over her shoes.

A moment later the door to Pops slams open with an aggrieved tinkle and Archie appears in the entrance to the diner, smile wide under his blazing hair.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Quick note - 'Paige' is Riverdale canon. :)


	8. Chapter 8

Jughead hurries into the police station and heads towards Toni’s desk. Already Betty can overhear a discussion that has the worn, mossy feel of a longterm argument between two people who know their lines almost too well. “You said you’d be there. Promised, in fact. I waited for twenty minutes, and I don’t wait for anyone.” As Betty approaches, she sees it’s the striking beauty from the clinic, red hair twisted over one shoulder in a waterfall of sunset ringlets.

“I hate my job for what it does to my personal life sometimes,” Toni argues, one palm up as if she’s supplicating. “But there’s nothing I can do about that – crime doesn’t work on a schedule, and as a result I can't either.”

“You’re simply going to have to make a choice. Hang out with me or make detective? It shouldn’t be a difficult decision.” The redhead stops, swings around, and frowns when she sees the new arrivals. “Who are you?”

Toni looks up at the same time, her eyes lighting up. “Jughead! I coudln't wait until you got here. We need to go back and look at some photos and files…” She waves Jughead down a hall, still chattering, and he bends his dark head closer as if he wants to catch every word.

They’ve worked together for weeks on strengthening their relationship, and yet Betty still experiences a spear of jealousy. Jughead has kissed her sweetly each morning when she goes to work, visited her with bagged lunch and flowers, made love to her every chance he’s had. Yet watching him disappear with the woman he once tried to pick up in a club hurts her down to the bone. Beside her there’s a sharp intake of breath, and Betty realizes the flaming beauty feels the same way.

In order to avoid a very awkward silence, she introduces herself. “I’m Betty,” she says. “I didn’t catch your name?”

“That’s because I didn’t give it.” The redhead sniffs but shakes Betty’s hand. Blinking, she tightens her grip. “Huh. I’m picking up on a strange vibe. How long have you been pregnant?”

“Excuse me?” Betty frowns. “I’m not pregnant.” She tries to withdraw her hand.

“Yes, you are, but there’s more - another wavelength. It’s weak, hardly audible. Another heartbeat, one that grew silent and died out. Did you lose a pregnancy last spring?”

“That’s none of your damn business!” Betty snatches her hand back. “I’m not talking about it, and I’m certainly not preg…” Her voice trails off. She hasn’t paid attention to birth control since Jughead told her he never slept with anyone else.

And her recent mood swings? And exhaustion? And weird cravings?

Tumbling into a chair by Toni’s desk, Betty covers her face. “Oh God,” she mumbles. “Preg. Preggo. I bet you're right and I _am_ knocked up. And how do I find out? From a doctor or even a pee-stick? No, from some devilish incubus who’s too rude to even introduce herself properly.”

The redhead seems to glimmer and soften with a slight tint of dawning approval. “Cheryl,” she offers. “And I gather I’m right about the lost pregnancy.”

“A year ago in April,” Betty admits. “We were thrilled. Then Jellybean disappeared and Jug’s mom died, and one weekend my husband took off for a few days. The bleeding started that night and just wouldn’t stop.” Once she’s launched into the story, her words tumble out. “It was awful, and things spiraled out of control from that point. When Jug landed a series on Jangle, he got too close to the subject. I sometimes wonder if he thought that since he lost all the women in his life, he figured I’d eventually leave him as well. Maybe he planned to drive me away before that happened. And why am I telling you all of this? You're rude as hell, and I don't even know you. And yet here I am, monologuing like a cartoon villain.”

Cheryl sniffs and casually opens a gold compact to study her lashes. “I don’t know about that, but it sounds like Toni’s finished with your husband.”

Betty can hear the detective’s low, pleasant voice in the hallway and decides it’s time for a reveal of her own. “You should just go ahead and ask her out,” she tells Cheryl. “The flirty arguments and thick tension have been going on between you two for a while, right?”

The compact snaps shut with an annoyed click. Cheryl’s CAT-scan gaze measures Betty, and her mouth opens.

If she’s about to say something, Betty will never discover what it is. Jughead emerges from the hall, wraps his arms around her waist in an easy embrace, and whispers, “Let’s go home.”

As they leave, Betty’s investigative curiosity compels her to look back at the two women. They’ve launched into another argument, but Cheryl mentions a local winery and Friday, and Toni’s plum mouth twitches as though she’s just received a secret gift.

#

At Thistlehouse, Betty disappears upstairs. When she comes down again, there's a fire in the sitting room and mugs of tea on a tray. Jughead pulls Betty onto his lap and plays with a strand of her hair, winding it around the pad of his thumb as he tells her the news. “It looks like it’s going to be a long process, but JB might be home by Christmas.” He peeks up at her and adds, “That is if you don’t mind her staying here? Since – well, she doesn’t have anywhere else.”

“Of course. You don’t even have to ask. Jellybean can live here as long as she wants.” Their couch fits six, and it’s flanked by two oversize armchairs. Their dining room seats twelve. They have three extra bedrooms, and the long back yard runs back several acres to thick woods. “This house is way too big for two people anyway.”

“We could always move.” Jughead looks around at the crackling fire, the floor-to-wall bookcases crowded with their favorite volumes, the glimpse of the glass dining room where they once made love. “I’d miss it, but I’m sure we’d find another place that would be fine.”

She pictures two blue lines on a plastic stick lying in the soapdish. “Actually…” Betty stands and cups his face. “What if your sister wasn’t the only new addition?”

“What do you mean?”

Betty tells him.

For a moment they are frozen in time. One log pops, sending a shower of sparks onto the hearth. Outside the window, Betty hears the soft cat-paws of early snow.

Jughead stands, moves her gently, and walks towards the bookshelves with his back to her. _If he walks out now,_ she realizes, _this is it. I’m done with him. This is his very last chance. If he says he needs time or space I’ll give them in spades, but he’ll never have me again._

He wheels around, eyes wide and panicked. “What if I’m a shitty dad? What if you have another miscarriage? What if I cause you to lose the baby again?”

“I might be a shittier mom, in which case you’re going to have to suck it up. God knows I don’t have the greatest maternal role model. And by the way, you didn’t cause our miscarriage by acting like a smacked ass. It was tragic but also perfectly natural. And if it happens again, God forbid, then we’ll adopt or take in about fifty shelter dogs, I don’t know. Maybe a shelter fox, why not? Or an otter. I’ve always liked otters.”

And there it is, the familiar grin she’s known all her life. When she got cut from the cheerleading squad, when Caramel died, whenever her mom said something particularly bitchy, Jughead was always been there with his mischievous smile and chorus of ‘Hey Coop, let’s sneak out and bowl a few frames.’

She squeezes her eyes shut, afraid he might decide this is too much after all and drive out of her life. The next moment is a roaring in her ears followed by a tiny rustle, and when Betty takes a peek, Jughead is on one knee in front of her. “Marry me,” he says simply.

Betty’s jaw drops. “You already proposed years ago. Hate to break it to you, but we _are_ married.”

“But I chunked out for over a year. I want to do it again, but do it right this time. Whaddya say, Betts, let’s get hitched.”

Holding out her hands, Betty laughs with pure relief. “Yes. Of course it’s yes, it’ll always be yes with you, except I’m not getting married again because our crazy marriage is the best thing that’s ever happened to me, and I will re-commit to you or whatever you want, but I want us just the way we are…”

The rest of her words are cut off as he springs to his feet and captures her in a searing kiss, hot and filthy with desire. “It’ll always be yes with me, huh?” he growls. Unable to speak, Betty nods. “Then,” Jughead adds, “I may have a few things I want to do to you upstairs.”

“Is that so?”

“That is so. Because you know, Betts, I need to get acquainted with this pregnant body of yours.”

She leads the way through their quiet house that will eventually fill up with laughter and tears. Jellybean will move into one bedroom. Maybe FP will come and stay, maybe even Betty’s mother will finally break down and visit. The dining room will get messy, the kitchen sink will overflow with dishes, the bedsheets will be rumpled, radios will play the same annoying top ten songs, and the silence at Thistlehouse will finally be conquered by actual life.

“Jug,” she murmurs as he kisses her from behind. “The pregnant me will probably get crazy at times, but she’ll always love you.”

“Mmhm. Just like the old version of me was a complete bastard, but he still loved you too. I just got lost for a while.”

“You mean Force?” she can’t help asking, and gets tickled in response.

“Force is well and truly dead. Good thing, he was the human version of a taint.”

Their reflections are triple ghosts in the dressing mirror. Betty arches against Jughead as he undresses her, tells her to watch what he’s doing, never take her eyes off, he wants her to look in the mirror and see just how lovely she is. And as he slowly drives them both over the cliff, Jughead tells her his final whispered confession, that other than the long-ago day when they first kissed, his accident was the best thing that ever happened to him.

\- End

**Author's Note:**

> I take emotional abuse very seriously and have done a great deal of research on the subject. Still, I'm always open to your con-crit. 
> 
> It is your right to expect proper representation and my responsibility to provide it.


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